Throughout her whole existence, her eyes continued to bear no emotions. It had only remained soulless just like the gentle smearing of gray smoke in the vast vicinity of a forest during midnight.
The people living here in Havensforth engage in numerous conversations and discourse about a single person. Various stories that can either give a frown or a grin, different versions that lost its true source, and different ways of describing an indifferent being.
All of the stories about her were nothing but created by the people's imaginations. They are trying to live up their imaginations on someone who has done nothing but stay at her own abode, a structure that sits several feet away from the rest of the neighborhood.
It was strange.
Truly, she was strange.
Every home in this small town is all binded the same way the families living in it are. I would describe it as a tight-knit knot with only a miniscule chance of getting out.
My aunt Rosie is known to be the town's baker, the one and only — and soon, will be passed on to my cousin, Gaile, who's really skilled at molding dough into different shapes that most children of Havensforth enjoy.
Our closest neighbors, Clei and Jo are the town's best shoemakers. In which Madame Lourdaine, the town's captain, would definitely disagree as they are competitors. Despite the presence of competition, they would occasionally find time to discuss and exchange their ideas with each other at the café near the edge of the town.
The café is run by Telvor, my childhood friend who recently confessed that he has liked me for years now. His cheeks and his ears are dusted red as he slightly pinch the sleeve of his plaid shirt.
It is a confession that I kindly turned down as I do not feel the same way.
He responded with a warm smile. I'm glad that he accepted that and asked me if we can continue to be friends while he starts moving on — which I agreed on.
Weeks after that, he asked me if I can continue writing poems created by my own interpretations of life because he wants to display some of it in their café. And from then on, I compile at least three poems every month and my aunt Rosie is kind enough to send them to Telvor.
"Riv, can you bring this basket to Madame Lourdaine? She ordered this yesterday in exchange for new pairs of shoes for you and Gaile."
With no effort, aunt Rosie carefully gave me the basket. The soothing scent of newly-baked buns planted a small smile on my face.
"Of course, auntie. I'll be back soon," I replied while she fixed the loose buttons of my vest.
"You may take your time, child. If you want, you may roam around the neighborhood or visit your friends. After all, Christmas is approaching. They might want to spend time with you," she stated.
I scrunch my nose before waving goodbye.
I wasn't really fond of interacting often.
Back when I was twelve, I used to bask in the sun every single day at noon. I have written many poems on how enthralled I am with the beauty of the Sun's warmth. But alas If I were to describe the true meaning of beauty, I would always say that it is the Sun. And the Sun, alone.
But years later, at the age of twenty, the warmth that I once felt from the Sun suddenly faded. It was akin to the sudden appearance of cumulonimbus clouds gently blanketing the gentle sight of that particular morning.
That even if a single ray of light shoots from the sky, I view it as nothing — merely irrelevant. It was a deepset feeling of losing your own definition of beauty.
It was as if the warm embrace it once gave me suddenly turned into a cold shove. It was no longer my comfort. The reason why I walked away from looking for another.
My train of thoughts stopped when I bumped into someone.
"Oh dear. River, are you alright?" The soft mellow voice of Clei asked. Her eyes reflect the feeling of worry — something that I haven't seen in a while.
"I'm fine, Clei. How are you and Jo?" I replied. I started to walk and she followed.
"My brother and I are quite busy these days, we have received lots of orders. I guess, many of the people here in Havensforth would be receiving shoes as their gifts," she chuckles.
"Ah, I see. I'll be going to Madame Lourdaine to deliver this basket of bread. You might want to go now," I informed her in which she nodded in response.
"It's nice seeing you again, River! I hope that we can catch up sometime soon, with Jo of course," she happily waved before turning around to go back to their shop.
I admit, it was nice to be able to talk to her after months of focusing on my writing.
And yes, I have been writing a book. I find satisfaction whenever my wrists hurt from too much exertion. I find glee whenever the blank page of that journal is filled with words.
It started when I had an interest in something. An interest that kept on going even though I don't have enough knowledge to pour in enough details about it.
"River! Thank you for bringing the bread!" Madame Lourdaine quickly obtained the goods from both of my hands. She placed them inside of her porch before picking up two boxes just below the rocking chair.
"Here are yours and this one's Gaile's," she scratched her nose and fixed the rim of her glasses after she gave me the shoeboxes.
"Thank you for this, Madame Lourdaine," I sincerely said. She only smiled before glancing at my side.
Her smile suddenly turned into a frown before turning around to go back to her porch.
Out of interest, I also looked at the direction that changed her mood and was surprised to see a woman.
The woman who is the subject to all of their stories and mine.
She was wearing a dark-green wool dress that reached her ankles. From a distance, I can say that she's the same age as I am but it seems like she's lived a life longer than mine.
A life that no one may be able to understand if they don't carefully understand what it is like to be in her own shoes. She slightly tilted her head and picked out something from her pocket.
My eyes widened when she raised an oak-colored journal, a very familiar one.
As much as I want to believe that it wasn't the same journal as the one I have at home, my doubts vanished when she pulled out a fountain pen. My eyes widened in recognition of that pen. It was a gift my father gave to me, the same day when he died.
My heart-raced upon realizing that she might've read the contents of that journal. But how did she even manage to get her hands on that?
I don't even remember taking it outside!
A few seconds later, she turned around and went inside of her home. She did not close the door as if inviting me to come in.
I exhaled heavily as I pinched the bridge of my nose. My train of thoughts never halted. I was filled with too many questions on how she even possessed my journal.
Biting my lower lip, I hesitated on turning around. It was annoying because I wanted to just go back home and forget everything that had happened today.
Maybe she'll forget about it too. After all, she won't be able to share it with anyone.
I stepped back.
I want to force myself to look away but her house seems to have its own gravitational force because I can't look away.
I shook my head and breathed deeply.
You know what? I will just get this over with.
I took a step forward and hastily approached the woman's home.
Not minding the calls of worry of Madame Lourdaine who seemed surprised at my actions. My fist curled up into a ball and disregarded every factor that made me hesitate.
